


The Sleeping Vampire

by Ralph_E_Silvering



Category: Carry On - Rainbow Rowell
Genre: Fantasy, M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-24
Updated: 2015-10-24
Packaged: 2018-04-27 22:04:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,019
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5066125
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ralph_E_Silvering/pseuds/Ralph_E_Silvering
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Simon's magick has always been unpredictable, but this night he feels like it's burning him alive from the inside out. And Baz, his sworn enemy and vampire roommate, is the only one cold enough, undead enough, to stop the fire.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Sleeping Vampire

Disclaimer: I just finished Carry On, and it’s completely my type of book. Baz and Simon are perfect, and Penelope is obviously the smartest person in the entire World of Mages (her and Baz), and Natasha and Fiona Pitch are the most badass people ever. So, anyway, just a short Baz/Simon drabble. Takes place in an alternate Year Seven, where Simon realizes how he feels about Baz due to his unpredictable magick, and no one’s dead yet. Enjoy!

&…...&……&……&……&…….&

Simon was hot. He was literally burning up. Well, that wasn’t strictly true, it wasn’t like he was on fire or anything, but he felt hot enough to be on fire. Little licks of heat were travelling up and down his arms like shooting green sparks, zapping He was sweating even though all the covers were thrown off of him and it was the first week of December.  
Snow covered the grounds of Watford, the Christmas trees had been dragged into the Great Hall, and even the pine trees dotting the lawns of the school had been hung with festive lights, like eternally by magick.

Simon squirmed in his damp and tangled sheets, before giving up and turning his head too look at his roommate. He scowled and wondered if Baz was trying to plot his demise even when the other boy was fast asleep.

Baz looked flawless as always; flawless and not burning to death, the posh prick.

Tyrannus Basilton Grimm-Pitch lay snug under a mountain of blankets that looked like real furs in the pale moonlight streaming from the window. He was sound asleep and his pale face, usually sneering or smirking at Simon, was peaceful in repose. His deep black hair was out of the slick style he usually favored and lay across his pale skin in silken strands.

He looked cool and untouchable – an ice prince – and Simon was burning to death. 

He stumbled out of his bed, his feet tangling in the sheets and dumping him on the ground in noise that would have woken the dead. Simon looked at Baz, still sleeping soundly despite his racket. ‘Or maybe not,’ he thought.

He stared hard at Baz, wondering what the other boy was up to. Baz was always up to something, and it was always something that was meant to kill, maim, or humiliate him. He’d asked the Mage, begged the Mage, last year to expel Baz. 

“Surely, after he tried to take my voice last year, he deserves expulsion!” he’d raged at the Mage, on one of the great man’s few visits. “Why must he even be allowed through these gates?! We all know that he’s a vampire! His kind should not even be here! This is Watford!”

But the Mage had merely stared at him, stared through him, and mildly inquired whether Simon had any proof that Baz was actually a vampire.

“He sneaks out every night and goes down to the crypts to drink blood! I’ve followed him!” Simon had protested loudly. Sometimes he thought that if he just yelled loud enough, made enough noise, that people would actually listen to him; that they would see that Baz was a villain who was out to kill him.

“And did you actually see young Mr. Pitch drinking blood down in the crypts?” the Mage asked politely, as though he was merely inquiring about the weather. He wasn’t listening to Simon at all, but rummaging through his untidy stacks of books and cursing under his breath as he obviously could not find what he was looking for.

Simon wanted to help, but he knew that his trying to use magick would only make it worse. Simon never knew the right words, and the power never came even when he did know any words. 

Baz would know the words. He was currently on a Shakespeare trend. Every spell that came out of his mouth was either from Macbeth or King Lear. When Penny had asked him why he used King Lear when it did not have half the magical words that Hamlet did, he’d lifted an eyebrow at her scornfully and told her that that might be true now, but the Normal world was on a Shakespeare binge at the moment, and if his family paid Tom Hiddleston or Benedict Cumberbatch to play in King Lear, Baz would be the most powerful mage in all of Watford.

“And then I will crush you like a bug, Bunce,” he’d told her, smiling so that just a hint of fangs showed, because he knew that would get to Simon the most. It was like he was taunting Simon.

Baz was always taunting him; even now when he was cold and Simon was burning in his own skin. 

Simon stumbled over to the windows and threw them open, gasping in the bitterly cold winter air, feeling snowflakes on his cheeks melting with a hiss, and hearing the wind whistling all around the Mummer’s House. 

It was cold out. The world was cold and slept beneath the stars, but Simon could not. 

“Merlin and Morgan le Fay, Snow,” Baz groans, rolling over and trying to burrow himself even further into his furs and blankets. “What the bloody hell are you doing? Close that window!”

Baz never curses, he’s much too posh for that. 

“I’m too hot,” Simon says. His teeth are chattering.

“If you’re sick, then go to Miss Possibelf and she’ll bring you to Wellbelove’s father. Jesus H. Christ, Snow, are you trying to kill us both?”

Simon doesn’t answer, his shivering is getting worse. Baz never gets sick, so he wouldn’t understand, but even Simon does not understand this. He doesn’t feel Normal sick, he feels magick sick, and he’s not sure that Dr. Wellbelove would know how to fix that. 

Maybe he should go to the Mage? The Mage would know what to do. The Mage always knows what to do.

And then Baz is beside him, slamming closed the windows and turning his ferocious glare upon Simon. His silky, black hair is sticking up haphazardly, his eyebrow is arched so high that it looks like it’s about to come right off his forehead, and his skin is deathly pale by the moonlight.

Simon automatically calls his sword to his hands; he merely thinks about it and it appears like it always does. It’s the Mage’s sword and he is the Mage’s Heir, and he’s facing a vampire by moonlight, alone, and with his own magick turning against him. 

Baz just rolls his eyes, avoids the sword and, quicker than Simon can react, places a hand on Simon’s forehead. His eyebrow manages to crawl up even higher. Simon watches it fascinated; he hadn’t thought that was possible.

Did being a vampire give one extra control over one’s eyebrows?

“Snakes alive, Snow, you’re burning up!” He tried to jerk his hand back.

Baz is cool to the touch; blessedly cool. I wrap my burning hands around the pale, cool one, keeping it against my forehead.

“Fear No More,” Baz whispers, and it shouldn’t have worked because it wasn’t from Macbeth or Hamlet, or even King Lear. But it was Shakespeare, and it was Basilton Grimm-Pitch, so of course it bloody worked.

The Mage’s Sword vanished.

Baz tugged his hand away and attempted to drag me after him. “Come on, Snow, we’re going to Ms. Possibelf right now. There’s no way you’re dying in this room. I’m not sure what the Anathema would have to say about it, but I’m quite sure the Mage would have my guts for garters.”

But I plant my feet hard into the floor of our tower room, and drag him to a stop. “No,” I say, shaking my head stubbornly. Ms. Possibelf and especially the Mage do not need to be bothered by my folly. “I’ll be fine!” I insist.

Baz hisses between his teeth, and his eyes, only dim sparks in the pale moonlight glare at me ferociously. He gives me a mighty tug, and he must be using his vampire strength now, because I’m moving towards him effortlessly. 

"Time stands still," I shout and I’m not sure why that one works, but magic flows through my words and Baz stops pulling me.  
In fact everything stops. Even the wind. Time has literally frozen and I can hear Penny shaking her head and rolling her eyes at me from her own bed, where she hopefully never learns that I did this.

“Nonsense,” I intone, just like Penny does every time I mess up, and then Baz is free again, snarling into my face, and I almost reach for my sword again, but he grabs my hands, one in each of his. 

“Snow, you stupid moron,” he snapped. “Why are you such a stubborn-”

But he breaks off whatever flattering words he was about to hurl at me, because everything goes dizzy, and I’m stumbling, falling, burning up and falling, and Baz grabs me before I hit the floor.

And he’s cool, wonderfully cool, and with his arms around me I don’t feel like every part of my body is on fire.

We’re on the floor now, him supporting my weight and, to my everlasting shame, I’m all but burrowing into him, seeking out the coolness of his dead, soulless skin. Distantly I wonder if this was his plan all along; get me weak and dependent on him and then do me in when I couldn’t protect myself.

What spell did he use? Why was he always so much more fiendishly clever than me?

“I just need…..I just need a moment,” I mumbled, against his silk pajama top. “You’re so…..” Somehow explaining that he’s perfect because he’s a vampire – and therefore cold and dead – doesn’t seem like the wisest course of action at the moment. Penny would be proud of my deduction skills. Maybe.

“Dashing? Brilliant? Fabulously wealthy?” I can practically feel his smirk. 

“A bloody wanker,” I snap, but I don’t move because I really do feel better leaning against him. “You’re cold,” I tell him, and he’s silent at that.

We’re both thinking about the elephant in the room; or in this case, vampire.

Although, who knows what Baz is actually thinking. He could be planning how to smother me in my sleep with a pillow without the Anathema getting him.

Baz sighs though after a moment, like he’s being grossly inconvenienced. “I’m not spending the rest of the night on this freezing cold floor with you, Snow, so you can either go see Ms. Possibelf, or you can lie down on the bed like a normal person.”

“What?” I shout, pulling back from him in alarm, when his words finally register. “You’re bed? No fucking way!”

But he doesn’t let me go far. Instead he hauls me up and all but throws me onto his bed, amidst the furs and thick wool coverlets, and climbs up after me, wrapping his arms around me tightly. His lips are in my hair, and he mutters viciously, “We tell no one about this Snow, or I swear I will find a way to end you!”

Like I’d ever tell anyone about this. The Mage would think I had lost my mind, and so would Agatha. Penny…..well, Penny would probably have theories that I do not want to hear. Ever.

“Fine,” I mumble back, my hands automatically creeping up his shirt, looking for cool, pale skin. He feels like a cold stream on a boiling summer day. He feels like a cool drink of lemonade after mowing the lawn. He feels like the spray of a waterfall in the midst of a jungle.

He feels like heaven. 

Baz jumps a bit when my hot hands skate lightly over his stomach. “Did I hurt you?” I ask, not sure whether I actually care or not.

“No,” Baz says, but his voice is somehow strangled, and his breathing has gone a bit strange. I didn’t even know that vampires needed to breathe the same way as everyone else, and that was interesting, so I move my hands lightly over his stomach again. I think he is actually holding his breath now, which was cheating, and just typical of him really. There was no way that Basilton Grimm-Pitch was going to win at this, so I move my hands up under his shirt until I reach his collarbone and then I skate them down; down, down, down…..

“Merlin, Snow, what are you doing?” And his voice is harsh as he jerks against me.

I’m still too hot, so I scoot closer, wrapping my legs around his, my hot bare feet attempting to find the skin under his pajamas. My face is buried in his neck, and I feel his throat jump at the contact.

“Well,” he says after a long moment, still so fucking nonchalant and cool, “at least you’re warm and I won’t freeze to death.” And I’m having none of that, this utter ability of his to keep his composure no matter what I’m threatening him with.

Even when his sworn enemy his wrapped around him in the middle of the night. Which is weird, now that I think about it.

“What’s wrong with me?” I ask him, half wanting to know, and half wanting to distract him. My lips brush against his throat. Then I lick my own lips, making sure that just the tip of my tongue just barely scraps his skin. I have no idea why I’m doing this, other than the vague notion that I need to make Baz lose control. Once. Just once.

I want to win against him for once. I want him at my mercy.

And he moans, he fucking moans. It’s the barest hint of a sound, quickly cut off, and if I wasn’t pressed against him so closely, I never would have heard it. But I did hear it.

“I have a list somewhere, Snow,” he grinds out, like every word is costing his extensive concentration just to sound coherent. But it’s still not enough. It’s never enough. I want more.

I lick him now, one quick hot swathe against his quivering throat.

“Don’t,” he gasps out, but his head falls back against the pillows, and his arms tighten around me. I wrap my hot hands around his back and, in one swift movement, I roll on top of him.

Now. 

Now I’m finally close enough. I feel every cool, perfect, flawless inch of him. He’s all slender limbs and hard muscle and smooth skin. And I realize that I’ve wanted this, this part of him, for a long time.

“Fuck, wank, bugger, shitting, arse, head and hole!” Baz swears, and it’s so unlike him that I almost laugh out loud, but I don’t because my face is now inches from his and it seems wrong to laugh; dangerous somehow, or maybe sacrilegious? 

I inspect him carefully for fangs, but if he has any they’re well hidden, and the only thing I see are Baz’s red lips, which are almost black in the moonlight. And then his eyes, which had fallen closed when we pressed together, open and pin me with a gaze that I have’nt seen since he’d tried to feed me to the chimera in our Fifth Year.

He looks hungry. 

He looks like he is contemplating murdering me, and then draining my blood. Or maybe the other way around. His lips fall open and quick puffs of air blow across my face. “Snow,” he threatens, “if you don’t get off of me right now, I swear I won’t be held responsible for my actions.” He almost hissed those last words.

But I’ve never backed down from Baz before and I wasn’t about to start now. The heat, the blinding, magickal, burning heat was slowly fading. I was still too hot, but I could think again, and feel again, and it was occurring to me that I was pressed against Tyrannus Basilton Grimm-Pitch, who was a villain and a vampire and a member of the Pitch family, and, most of all…….really, really good-looking. 

And before I could actually process those words coming from my brain (Since when do I think blokes are good-looking? Since when do I think Baz is good-looking?), Baz leans up and kisses me.

He tastes like snow and rain and crisp, fresh mountain air.

He told me afterwards that I tasted like smoke and ash.

I kiss him back. We kiss, and kiss, and somehow he rolls me over until he’s on top, and now his hands are running all over me, finding every mole and kissing it or licking it, like he was marking his territory; the places where he would suck blood from me later.

We fall asleep like that, kissing and touching, and neither of us make it to breakfast the next morning, although I feel good again, as though the fire has finally gone out.

When Penny comes barging in – I still have no idea how she even gets into Mummer’s House – and sees us on Baz’s bed together…….well, at first she thought I was possessed, but after she had cast every healing and revealing spell known in the World of Mages, she taps her ring against her lips and stares at the both of us thoughtfully.

Baz gives her a haughty look back.

He still looks so posh and flawless that I am tempted to pull him back into me and kiss him again, but I restrain myself.

Penny rolls her eyes at me, and I wonder how much she’d seen on my face.

“This……..this is……….this really makes so much sense,” she finally tells us.

Baz groans. “You have a twisted mind, Bunce,” he informs her.

She grins at him like a shark. “I’m not the one spooning my sworn enemy.”

But Baz just raises an eyebrow. Typical. “Yes, but I’m the big spoon.”

“Hey! Only because I’m sick!”

“Someone had better tell Agatha that the love-triangle wasn’t about her after all,” Penny says.

The End.

&……&……&……&……&……&……&

Aren't Baz and Simon just perfect? Should I write more of them?


End file.
